romantics call this a love story, the cynics call it a tragedy
by seasaltsails
Summary: "Cory's bones suffocated his heart, his breath never got untangled in his throat." —- ShawnTopanga


**the romantics would call this a love story, the cynics would call it a tragedy  
** shawn hunter & topanga lawrence

* * *

Cory's bones suffocated his heart, his breath never got untangled in his throat. That makes the teenager slug the drink faster than he's ever telling the barista—who wears the shortest dress he's seen yet—to _brew him the amount of beers fifty dollars in his wallet covers_. And no, he doesn't care anymore; no more fucking promises.

It has to be done.

Being sober, being alive. Pretending he's not dead while his best friend, his best influence, his everything, his **babe** , rots. Sobs roll out as memories unfold as surprisingly as they might in Texas Hold 'Em.

Hunter's trachea burns familiarly with the fourth drink in four minutes. He's not finished, he cannot be. Not yet.

* * *

For a spilt second, Shawn worries Cory'll pound his face when he finds out this next move. _You don't exist. You effing left me. This's your punishment because you're a fucking lousy piece a shit_.

"Hello?" her voice is sleepy, he doesn't kill the butterflies  
"Ayee, _Canyoupickmeup_? _IkinnaneeanevrythinsbluwyPang_ —" Laughter burst from his lips and then _thump_! Shawn blabs again.  
Topanga barely deciphers the story, but doesn't bother because she knows he's dangerously plastered. Overlaying him, she takes control. "Hey—" He's upside down? She continues, "hey, you, stay on the line with me, alright?"  
"M'tay."  
"I'm coming."

* * *

She uncharacteristically slides the railing. A habit of Shawn's ironically. Scribbling an update to Aunt Pru, knocking her backpack of oversized t-shirts and comfy flannels and hoodies onto her back to do so, she runs out. Checking on Shawn along the way, Topanga finds him on the corner convenience shoppe. Cigarette smoke is swirling into the clouds; he's finishing it and smushing it via his ( _impressive_ , _Cory-couldn't-do-that sober_ ) backflip.

She guiltily calls his name, eyes twinkling, ruefully loving how astounded he looks. Is she drunk?

Getting Shawn to the car proves she isn't. They have to walk a bit. He learns on Topanga mostly; their hands looped. He whines a shit ton about how she "'eeps acoozin' 'im abien dr'nk af iz ash" as he scrolls his hands on posts. Because she bumps his knees a majority of the way, the two manage a fairly swift walk.  
"Were weoing?" he asks, yawning widely.  
She pauses; she hadn't paid attention to the small but ever important detail. "Oh." Shawn tumbles toward a streetlamp, hugging it as though it's a long lost friend. "Well, uhm, you're place? Prudence definitely wouldn't appreciate…" trailing the idea as her best friend vomits furiously on his shoes.

"Mmm," Shawn mews once she's supporting his weight.

* * *

Allie Hamilton is kissing Noah Calhoun when his best friend finally feeds him warm red-sauce pasta. She smiles and Shawn Hunter realises that Topanga Lawrence is the most bea—scratch that!—she is that 'living poem' Noah defined Allie. _You left her. She didn't just cry! Broke pictures_. _Shouted her gorgeously-curved little ass off_. _Cut your jacket_. _Cursed profusely, the sweet lips_. _I held her for hours, Cor_. _So no, you go_.

Topanga forces every last bite between Shawn's teeth. Not knowing when his next proper meal is going to be, frightens her considerably so. The Matthews always had something for him, but Topanga doesn't want to give him a reason to go there anytime in the near future. Maybe he'd stay with her?  
"As good, Tope."  
"Tope?" she echoes.  
He challenges, "Panga?"  
"Possibly."  
"Yeah, both."

Hair spills down her back, some curls behind her ears. He's admiring her, because it _really_ is not looking, and it feels good. They easily watch the characters onscreen make love wide-awake. Before closing her eyes, Tope tries very hard not remember Shawn is also wearing the cotton pyjama top and plaid, winter flannel pants she'd loaned him.

* * *

Shawn rolls the other direction without the prize of sleep.

"Don't you dare, Shawn!" and he stiffly rises from the sofa. "Alcohol is great until you have to nurse this bitch, huh?" She's awake, perched on the barstool. Oh no _._ He grins, in space. _He is way too lovely an aesthetic for first thing in the morning_. God. (She tries to calm the stampede by almost thinking he ought to grab Tylenol, settling on a not-so-ignorant bliss,). He's grappling for his footing. Shawn doesn't let her rationalise being perfect.

With Shawn out of place, Topanga's brain flicks between several past days. _The ski lodge._ They spent the entire trip together. Almost. It's here she really saw him. Saw what a man he could be.

One time, two in the morning, he'd started a snowball fight for all of the senior class while Cory sat obliviously chatting Lauren. He'd caught her off-guard, throwing her over his shoulder, assaulting Angela one-handed while she begged to put down.  
 _  
Only if you make snow angels. Are you gonna?  
_ _Sure._ She did—he helped, actually. He balled the snow and she'd flapped.

It took hours to make six because it had been freezing, but they were happy, alone and didn't mind much. Together they'd been glued to the sunrise glowing in. Shawn snuck carefully into the kitchen hutch to make hot cocoa with marshmallows. Extra for her, he'd recalled fast. She told him about her dreams to be a corporate lawyer and he admitted how empty he felt most days. She told him how annoying Minkus was, and he celebrated the fact she finally noticed.

She leaned into the crook of him, his arm rested on her shoulder and for the first time in the entire trip, she'd forgotten about her boyfriend who was probably having sex with a stranger.

* * *

Closing the bathroom door, Shawn raises himself to the med cabinet, using sink counter leverage. . It's three a.m. _Eff you, bastardshit_. He thinks of Cory. Again. Lately, he usually is and it makes him mad. His processes tranquilise a moment, giving last night time to melt prettily into a memory. _Yes_ , _asshole—Panga slept over my house because you left me_ , _shithead._ Morning greets obtrusively. He swings his head back again, whiplashing on air.

"Y'know I dunno why they don't sell this stuff to kids," Cory Matthews matter-of-facts.

Shawn turns. "Excuse me?"  
Laughter; then, "a small price to pay for its magical wonders!"

The Hunter boy figured he was dreaming, a moment ago, but there is Cory Allen Matthews, not a day over eighteen. Cocking his head at this buddy from his seat on the edge of bathtub, the shower pulled back, thus Hunter sees him clearly. A bottle of his father's liquor quickly in Shawn's possession.

"Gimme that, Wop," just like sixth grade.  
"I'm going to knock your head off." Shawn shoves him, psyche floods the room, and he's nearly going to slug Cory with containers.  
"Shawn," Cory hugs him tight. Breathing through his nose, fidgeting until he reminds him. " **THIS A HUG** , and this is when you hug someone: when you love them and you want them to know that!"  
"Shawn," the curly haired boy asks, "you there?"  
"Yeah…hum, just listening to the sound of your voice."

* * *

Cory's bones suffocated his heart, his breath never got untangled in his throat.  
A day later, Shawn plastered himself and spent the week hiding out with Topanga in Turner's abandoned apartment rewatching The Notebook over and over again and sleeping over again and again. But Cory is pissed; he still follows Shawn everywhere, especially when Topanga's involved.  
Fourteen days later, Cory Matthews won't be able to haunt him anymore. He won't exist. There'll just be ashes, no person. No fucking Cory, who effing left him and Topanga. Shawn will forgive him for dying, not for leaving him alone.

* * *

It's been fourteen days. He's in tears. Not ready, not prepared to say goodbye. He locks himself in his old bedroom. Can't breathe, doesn't wanna, doesn't need to. What's the point?

She can't understand him, but he's sobbing roughly, so she breaks in. He's slumped against the wall.

"Oh, Shawnzie."

Topanga folds herself on the fuzzy carpet beside this broken boy. Desperately snuffing mucus back up his nose. Running cuffs of his leather jacket underneath his nostrils. A couple of words resemble an apology, coming after several _T-t-panga don'ts_!

Something punches Topanga in the stomach. That way Shawn contorts opposite her. If she lays a hand down to his level, he'll explode. Fear is written on his sloppy face and she can't do anything to stop it. He's angry with her, she recognises, because she's seeing him with no walls. But he's in a six-year-old memory from abusers, numb by death. This gentleman never was comfortable with drunks. He's stuck. It was always Shawn Patrick's mechanism to escape without his [dead] mate.

So he attempts to run away. Topanga blocks the entrance, the manner her (ex?) might. He kicks her. All she knows is that this monster who'd hurt her leg is not Shawn. The sadness is crushing Shawn's ribs, and Topanga hasn't a clue how to fix it.

* * *

The café is quite quaint, he notes as Topanga's types a quick response to Prudence's very bothersome text messages.

"Kiss me," he states.  
"Wh—"  
He repeats it. "You told me said I was like a bird, Topanga. A bird always flying, escaping. And if I'm a bird…"  
"…then, I'm a bird," she finishes.  
"Again. Say I'm a bird, Tope."  
"Shawn, you're a bird."  
"If you're a bird, I'm a bird."

Topanga's, _okay, okay.  
_ Topanga's, _do you love me?_  
Topanga's, _kiss me.  
_ Topanga's, _kiss me._  
Topanga's, _kiss me._  
 _Topangatopangatopanga_.

* * *

He's greedy and he fucking knows it. And she really enjoys it; she teases.

One palm sticks to the girl's restroom door. The other stabilises her, allowing him to kiss her from her forehead to lips. Lips mesh softly like snow, like ice cream on the nose. When theirs collide, he swallows her. Swallows her completely, so she's in his bones, is his blood and the rhythm of his heartbeat. She grapples for his taste everywhere, knotting her fingers around his bent neck, slicing her nails into his posterior deltoids. She lifts his shirt, kissing every corner, every curve of lips, tracing the line of symmetry where his spine is on his back.

Shawn loses it then. He whimpers at the airiness of Topanga's skin on his. Fire; never stop.

"Yeah, Panga. 'ove you; I—I want all of you, forever every day. You'n'me ev'ry day."  
"Shut," she pauses briefly to suck the life out him on his bottom lip, "up, Shawn." It's a whisper.  
"N-no. C'mere…" He takes her in his mouth strikingly quick, forcing her to arch her back and turn her mouth and simply be his when he peppers her neck with kisses.  
"Mine?" she quirks.  
"Yours."

* * *

Cory's bones suffocated his heart, his breath never got untangled in his throat. A month ago, Shawn watched him burn.  
He and Topanga aren't dating, but he's hung out with her for a month, kissed her too.  
So, isn't that the same thing?

* * *

It's noon. Shawn's asleep, snoring still. Topanga idles by her own doorframe for a bit before writing on the front of his hand, in Sharpie, "I love you now as I write this, and I love you now as you read this." And on the back, she writes, "you are, and always have been, my dream."

She leaves him with a kiss on the lips.


End file.
